


Closer

by Allie_J



Category: Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, PTSD, Really at a loss as to how to properly describe this, Recovery, Steve's Pov, handjob, sexual healing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-05
Updated: 2016-02-05
Packaged: 2018-05-18 08:53:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,975
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5918251
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Allie_J/pseuds/Allie_J
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Having an orgasm is like losing control of your body.</p>
<p>And Bucky is terrified of losing control.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Closer

**Author's Note:**

> I'm not really sure how to describe this or what it's supposed to be. It's not really smut but it is explicit ... I'm not even sure it has a happy ending. It just sort of _is_. And I like it, in that weird way of being a little afraid to actually like anything that's a product of your own creativity. I hope you like it, too, if you've taken the gamble of reading it.

Steve could count on one hand the number of times he’d watched Bucky sleep. Really sleep – his breathing deep and unrestricted, his lips fallen open, his eyelashes fluttering subconsciously. The slightest movement he made – shifting his arm, stretching his back, let alone trying to gingerly sneak out of their shared bed in the middle of the night – would wake him.

He pretended, though, for Steve’s sake. Pretending to sleep, to savor food, to enjoy a movie - it was all part of a larger pattern that Steve resented, that he was gently trying to break him of each passing day, but it also seemed to preserve some sense of privacy for Bucky. He pretended, and Steve pretended not to know that he pretended, waiting for the day it would become real. 

He was pretending to sleep, now. It always seemed to go that way – he rarely woke before Bucky, rarely fell asleep after him. He was pretending - could hear it in the levelness of the breaths he took in, see it in the unnaturally stiff curve of his mouth.

“Morning,” he muttered, shifting half onto his side. His nose bumped against the top of Bucky’s forehead, and he sighed a little, breathing in the scent of his hair.

It wasn’t to say they hadn’t made progress. Leaps and bounds, since the day he’d gotten him back again, when he could barely stand to be looked in the eye, let alone touched.

Bucky made a little noise, a groan of disapproval, maybe. He wasn’t sure. But he didn’t move away.

He waited, listening to the sound of his breathing, wondering if, against all odds, Bucky might fall back asleep against him. But his breathing remained level and shallow, and finally, he shifted his weight again.

“I can make pancakes, if you want,” he offered, his voice half-muffled by the pillow. “I bought blueberries.”

He waited for Bucky’s response, knowing that sometimes, it took a moment.

“No,” he said lowly, and Steve rolled over a little more so that he could look at him.

It never got old, the sight of Bucky in bed next to him. His long hair mused up, a blanket pulled tight around his shoulders. All that was missing was the sleepiness in his eyes. They were often tired, but never ceased to be vigilant.

“No?” Steve repeated. He wanted to kiss him. He always wanted to kiss him – it was like an undercurrent in his veins, seizing him at odd times during the day. He did, sometimes, but cautiously. Only when the moment felt right.

“No,” Bucky confirmed. He stared back at him, hardly blinking.

It was unsettling, the new intensity that Bucky carried with him now. He wondered sometimes if it would ever go away entirely, if he could accept the possibility that it might not.

“You’re thinking hard,” he said. Something was off – but then, something was almost always off. “Did you have a nightmare?”

“You know I didn’t,” Bucky replied, voice impatient. It was true – Bucky’s nightmares were violent, brutal, waking Steve in the middle of the night with thrashing and screaming and tears. They didn’t end with Bucky waking calm and alert at his side.

“What is it, then?” Steve asked.

He gave in to his urge, his nearly constant urge, to touch him, reaching out and placing a hand on his shoulder. He tried to ignore Bucky’s sudden twitch, focusing instead on the way the muscles quickly relaxed beneath his fingertips.

Bucky didn’t answer. He closed his eyes, rolled onto his back, slipping out from under his touch. Opened them again, stared hard up at the ceiling.

It was difficult, sometimes, to know when to back off, when to push. He didn’t want to smother him. But then, bowing out of every tense moment between them felt like running away.

“You don’t have to explain,” he said, already inching toward the edge of the bed. “I know you – I can go make us some breakfast. Anything you want.”

He hesitated a moment, slipping further away. He was just about to throw his legs over the edge when he heard Bucky suddenly shift behind him, rolling back toward him.

“Stay,” he said, urgently, and almost immediately Steve was facing him again, his body sliding back under the covers. Staring at him, resisting the temptation to reach out, run his hands through his hair, pull him into his chest, comfort him. He wished it could be that easy.

“Sure,” he said, quickly, almost embarrassed at how eager he sounded. “Tell me what you need.”

For a moment, Bucky’s eyes had widened, cleared. Now they darkened again, clouded over with what Steve had come to recognize as his nearly perpetual state of uncertainty.

He paused, waiting, and when Bucky gave him no instruction, only continued to stare out at him before finally glancing down into the mattress, he reached out again for his shoulder.

He watched as Bucky started to pull it out of reach, and immediately, he withdrew his hand.

“Not yet,” Bucky said. He sucked his lower lip into his mouth, chewed it a little, an encouraging sign. It meant he was nervous, but also open. Pushed too far, he would simply shut down completely. “I don’t –“

His voice staggered before falling away, and Steve bit back a sigh. He felt muzzled, denied the only way he knew how to truly communicate with Bucky – affectionate touch – and left instead with words that always failed to be enough.

“You know you can be honest with me,” he said, feeling like he was pulling lines out of some kind of therapy textbook. He wasn’t good at this – at words. His relationship with Bucky had always been largely unspoken, in good ways and in bad, but had never hinged this much on his ability to express, to reassure. “There’s nothing you can’t say.”

Bucky seemed to consider this, turning away from him to stare up again at the ceiling.

And then, quickly, as if he knew he would lose the nerve if he didn’t do it fast enough, he yanked up the blankets covering him and threw them aside, exposing his body, the t-shirt and sweatpants he wore as pajamas.

Steve sucked in a breath. Even under the loose, thick material, it was obvious. Bucky was hard.

His mind seemed to both freeze and launch itself into hyperdrive, skidding wildly with panic. He had learned how to handle the silence, the nightmares, the truncated conversations that often went nowhere. But this –

He hadn’t expected this. Had never prepared, in any way, for this.

And then Bucky was talking, still staring up at the ceiling, as if afraid to look at him.

“It used to happen all the time,” he said, his voice strained, melancholy, the way it always was when he touched on his shattered memories. “It used to be – normal.”

“It is normal,” Steve said, finally, barely managing to choke the words out. He kept his eyes firmly on the profile of Bucky’s jaw, resisting the urge to glance down again at his tented sweatpants. And suddenly, he was comforted by his own words.

It was normal. It was a sign that his body, and his mind, were healing.  
Absurdly, he felt himself smile.

Bucky turned his head toward him on the pillow, still keeping his back firmly down on the mattress.

“You used to touch me,” he said.

Steve’s smile faded.

He swallowed hard, feeling his heart start to pick up pace, his throat swell. Of course Bucky knew – he had remembered some things, things which Steve had confirmed, but largely, it was something they never talked about. It was something he tried not to think about, something that would be a strange combination of ridiculous and selfish to think about. Not now, when just holding his hand felt like a victory.

“Yeah,” he said, finally. “I did. We – we did.”

Bucky blinked back at him, eyes narrowing slightly, considering. He had a sense that he was displeased with this answer – that he knew how much he was holding back.

Steve licked his lips as he waited for a reply, heart beating faster.

“I want you to touch me again,” Bucky said, eyes following the movement of his tongue.

Shit.

Immediately, his mind was flooded with objections. Bucky tolerated touch sporadically, only under the most ideal circumstances. A single nightmare could mean days without –

And this was huge, compared to that. Compared to simply being allowed to hold him in his arms, press in for a brief, chaste kiss.

But then, he wanted them to move forward. To move on, to progress, and this was certainly a step in that direction. And Bucky was asking so directly. There was no mistaking his intention, his consent –

“You can say no,” Bucky said, suddenly. Steve watched the muscles in his jaw clench. “It goes both ways.”

“It’s not that,” he said immediately. He wanted to reach out, pull him into his chest, reassure him – but instinctively he held back. “I – I want to, of course I want to, I’m just –“

“Scared,” Bucky supplied.

It was strange, how Bucky, for all his lack of words, sometimes seemed to voice exactly what Steve couldn’t. His fear of breaking him down again somehow, undoing the progress they’d made, setting him back. Giving in to himself too much, becoming selfish, using him, manipulating him into what he wanted instead of letting him heal on his own terms.

“Right,” he sighed. He let himself shift closer, relieved when Bucky made no move to stop him.

“I am, too,” he said, frowning. He rolled over, facing Steve fully, and again he had to stop himself from looking, from glancing at the exposed skin where his t-shirt had rucked up. “But I wanna try.”

The sadness in his voice pierced him, and Steve could’ve cried at the quiet longing there. It silenced his questions, his nagging need to press him for more clarification, more proof that he was ready, that this was safe. Because it never would be easy. There would never be a perfect time. There would always be a risk.

He sat up a little in bed, opening his arms.

“Come here,” Steve said. He tried not to feel overpowered at the emotion that seized his chest when Bucky shifted over, settling firmly against him, head tucked under his chin. How he let him lean down, kiss his forehead firmly.

“Tell me to stop if it gets to be too much,” he said. He felt Bucky nod against his shoulder, shifting his weight. Settling into him.

“I wanna stay like this,” he said, his voice quiet, but determined. “Just use your hand.”

“Okay,” Steve said, mouthing the word into his hair. One arm was wrapped securely around Bucky’s shoulder, hand loose on the warm metal of his bicep. He lifted the other, letting his hand settle at first near Bucky’s waist, above the t-shirt. Giving him time to change his mind.

He was nervous. He wondered if Bucky could sense the depth of it, feel how hard his heart was beating, how his hand started to sweat as he let his fingers drag over the warm fabric, the firm muscle of his abdomen, the sharp curve of his hipbone.

It wasn’t his first time with Bucky. That had been just as terrifying, but also easier – when the momentum had become too much and they’d both slipped, fell into it effortlessly without thinking, blinded by need. Not slow, not careful, not intentional. Not at all like this.

He finally let his fingertips nudge under the thick band of Bucky’s sweatpants, monitoring him for signs of discomfort. Listening to his slow, even breathing. Waiting for his shoulders to tense with fear.

He slipped his hand inside, palming Bucky’s erection through his boxers. He heard the other man’s breath hitch, then release in a soft hiss, and he waited – but there was nothing else.

Maneuvering his hand a bit, he managed to pull Bucky out of his boxers, wrapping his hand around him. He realized it might’ve been easier just to push his sweatpants down – his hand, and Bucky, were still hidden underneath them – but then, not being able to see what his hand was doing somehow made it easier.

He waited, listening to Bucky’s low exhale, feeling his shoulders tense. He nearly panicked, nearly let go, but then Bucky was turning his head, trying to look up at him.

“Steve,” he said, an edge to his voice – saying his name almost like a reprimand. “I’m fine.”

He held his head there, twisted at an awkward angle – and Steve realized he was waiting for him to kiss him.

And he did, leaning down into his mouth, savoring it, feeling the familiar rush of warmth that always flooded his chest when Bucky let him do this. It wasn’t exactly a passionate kiss, not what he would’ve imagined, considering where his hand was. But it was firm, determined, and Steve realized in a bizarre flash of understanding that Bucky was trying to reassure him.

He was more terrified of this than Bucky. 

So he broke the kiss, and tried not to think.

And it got easier, when he squeezed his cock a little and Bucky made a noise he couldn’t quite read, something like a moan crossed with a sigh of relief. And when he began to slowly – carefully – pump his hand up and down, and Bucky writhed against him in little twitches. 

The weight of his body on his chest slowly got heavier, and Steve realized it was because Bucky was leaning back on him in a way he never had before, letting his body go, letting it go slack –

But he had to think again when the breathless sounds Bucky was making got to him, and then his body was letting go, too, and he was hard, resisting the urge to grind up against the curve of Bucky’s ass. He knew the other man must feel it, knew that, maybe, probably, Bucky wouldn’t want him to hold back, knew he hated Steve’s hesitance, hated being babied and coddled and fearfully protected too much –

But this was about Bucky, and not him, and he couldn’t hold a coherent argument with himself when Bucky’s movements shifted from restrained jerks of his hips to rolling, desperate shudders –

It was all he could do just to ignore his body, focusing instead on the man in his arms, in his hand. He kissed him to distract himself – whatever he could reach, the taut curve of his throat, sheening with sweat, his hair, the edge of his forehead, the collarbone under his warm cotton t-shirt.

Bucky let him. He didn’t even seem aware of it, seemed utterly lost to himself, which for Steve was both terrifying and also wonderful – he couldn’t decide, just kept stroking him with his hand.

He could feel Bucky’s body tense up against him, his shoulders stiffening, seizing, his hands digging into the sheets, and Steve was sure he was about to –

“Stop,” Bucky sputtered suddenly, throwing his head back, rolling it wildly on Steve’s shoulder, gasping brokenly. The word poured out of him until Steve could barely hear it – “Stop stop stopstopsto –“

He did, immediately, and as soon as he broke his hold, Bucky was struggling away from him, wrestling out of his arms, and Steve let them go slack, watched as Bucky threw himself out of the bed, almost tripping on the blankets, and staggered to the bathroom.

He followed him, watching, ignoring the numbness he felt. He got to the bathroom just in time to pull Bucky’s hair back as he bent over the toilet, his fingers grazing the wetness on the other man’s cheeks.

When it was over, he poured out a glass of water, handed it to him, watched him drink and spit it out and drink again. Then he sunk to the floor, watching his shoulders shake, and waited for Bucky to look at him.

Every moment, he resisted the urge to apologize. He wanted to say it – almost needed to say it, a visceral, cutting need – but knew he couldn’t. Shouldn’t. Knew how much Bucky would hate to hear those words.

He reached out instead, relieved when Bucky let him rest his hand on his shoulder, let him slide it down his back. He imagined the words could be the slow movement of his hand, instead – drifting in slow circles, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, _I’m so sorry_.

And gradually his breathing slowed down, and he slumped into the touch, and Steve saw that he was still crying.

“It wasn’t you,” he said, finally. When Steve wasn’t sure how much time had passed.

“I know,” he said, even though he didn’t really believe it. Couldn’t remember, couldn’t sort through how much he was accountable for – only knew, plainly, how much he had wanted it. How much he must’ve ran with it, not thought it through properly.

“They,” Bucky started, after another long moment. “They had – some kind of drug – it made my heart beat fast, and hard, so hard, and I swore I thought – it was going to kill me –“

“Stop,” Steve said. He stopped the movement of his hand, tightened it over his shoulder. “You don’t have to explain it to me.”

“I do,” Bucky said. And he looked at him, finally, and his eyes had never been more resolute, even wet and bloodshot. “You deserve to know.”

Steve wasn’t sure about that. He tried to discourage that kind of reasoning in Bucky – what he deserved and didn’t deserve. It wasn’t about that.

“Don’t worry,” he said, instead of arguing. “We have time.”

He never was much for comforting words. But, after another long moment, Bucky slowly started to stand, and he didn’t take his hand off him as they walked back to the bedroom.


End file.
